


Put It in Your Pantry with Your Cupcakes

by Siobhan_Schuyler



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-27
Updated: 2006-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 07:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siobhan_Schuyler/pseuds/Siobhan_Schuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Dean," she starts, and nothing good as ever come out of her saying his name like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put It in Your Pantry with Your Cupcakes

When Tom finally cracks a molar on a brownie, Lindsay is summarily banned from the Inn. Dean puts in a token protest but Lorelai makes a good argument, even if said argument is that Tom needs all his teeth to hold a pencil in his mouth, and what is a true contractor without his chewed pencil?

The Gilmore logic proves unshakable, as usual, and Lindsay starts packing lunches for Dean instead of showing up to maim the whole crew. Dean gives his sandwiches to Matt, who'll eat anything, and gets a ham on rye from Luke's every day at eleven-thirty.

He's all but slapped on the wrist when Sookie finds out about this. Next thing he knows he's perched on a stool in the half-finished kitchen, watching Lorelai manhandle the new coffeemaker and Sookie "whip up" a three-bean salad and prosciutto on a homemade ciabatta with marinated eggplant and pesto mayonnaise. Dean knows better than to resist being force-fed by this particular twosome.

Lorelai hands him a full mug and wraps both hands around her own, leaning her hip against the butcher block to eye him. "Sookie'll be happy to feed you any day, you know. I'd have you over but I know how you feel about single Pop Tarts that've been sitting in their open packet all week."

"What can I say, I have a delicate palate," Dean grins, meeting her eye, and gratefully downs a mouthful of hot coffee. She always did make it strong enough to strip varnish.

She's hiding her face behind her own cup, and he watches her eyes sweep over the shoulders of his work shirt, then dip down to take in the tool belt hanging lopsided across his hips. Sookie looks up at them indulgently, oblivious. Dean squirms under the scrutiny, the collar of his skirt sticking to the back of his neck. He can practically feel the hairs there curl with sweat.

Lorelai clears her throat and looks away, which usually means trouble. "Dean," she starts, and nothing good as ever come out of her saying his name like that. "If you're not busy after you've eaten, there's a crooked doorjamb upstairs that could use a look-see."

If they were anywhere but in the kitchen of a quaint New England inn, her off-handed come-on might've sounded like the most overt of propositions. But in Stars Hollow, you get a friendly cook offering to make you dessert to bring upstairs while you work.

There's nothing wrong with the doorjamb.

It's solid, perfectly level when Dean pushes her up against it, looking for skin under the hem of the short skirt she wore to meet with suppliers that morning. She's got a handful of his hair in each fist and licks a smudge of pesto mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth, humming, pleased, uncharacteristically quiet. She tastes like coffee, as suspected. Biting and rich.

She's just tall enough in her heels, her legs nylon-smooth. He grinds against her hip, rips a small run in the thigh of her stocking just to dig a fingernail into bare skin. She sucks in a breath on a grin and bites at his lip, digging her own fingers into the back of his neck.

There's no time; he's due back to work and Sookie might actually make good on her promise of delivering dessert up here. He makes himself step back just as she's reaching up for a half-hearted shove. Lorelai adjusts her skirt and jacket daintily, then elbows the door frame with a manly hitch of her shoulders. "Good work. You really showed that door frame who's boss."

Dean laughs and repositions his tool belt. "I think it's shepherd's pie tonight. I may take you up on that Pop Tart."

*

He doesn't. The lone Pop Tart (cherry, the best kind) stays in its box on the counter for a whole week before she eats it one night before bed, dropping crumbs all over her sheets. She's too tired to change the sheets or find the Dirt Devil, so she sleeps in Rory's bed. The room still smells faintly of broccoli.

Then one Saturday afternoon he shows up at her back door while she's eating a bagel pizza over the sink. He doesn't knock before coming in, just closes the door noiselessly behind him and stands next to the fridge watching her eat. He looks serious, halfway between happy and not, and she stops mid-bite, hesitating one moment before waving the snack at him. "Hungry?"

"Thanks, I already ate," he says on a half-smile and pulls a chair to sit gingerly, draping his Doosey's apron over the back of the chair. He looks like he's trying to take up less space, and suddenly he reminds Lorelai of his sixteen year old self, careful but confident. Someone you want around, for all the right reasons.

Lorelai swallows the last bite of her dinner and plucks two bottles of water from the fridge, setting them down on the table between them when she sits. Her knee knocks against his under the table, accidentally; he shifts but doesn't move away. Lorelai watches the muscles in his forearm shift when he cracks open the bottle, watches his throat work when he drains half of it in one long gulp.

They talk about the Inn, about the weather, about the last town meeting. He tells her about the produce specials, about Tom's cracked molar, about needing new brake pads on his truck. They don't talk about Rory or Lindsay or Luke or why Dean's here. By eleven-thirty Dean's smile has finally reached his eyes. Lorelai thinks of asking him to stay.

He leaves at ten past twelve, backs her up against the counter when she goes to walk him out. His thumbs stick to the insides of her elbows and the back of her head bangs against the cupboard when he kisses her, indelicately, a little rough. She licks at his teeth and he bites at her lip, and her pulse is all the way up in her throat when the door swings closed behind him, leaving her alone in her kitchen made for two. Any two.

She goes straight to bed instead of passing out on the couch in front of a Meg Ryan movie, like she'd planned on doing. She leaves the lights on and comes with her hips hitching up against her hand, thinking about thicker fingers and crumbs.


End file.
